Of Loss and Sorrow
by c1araoswa1d
Summary: Tumblr Whouffle Prompt: Clara and eleven lost a baby they were really looking forward to


For just over seven months, the Tardis had been filled with what the Doctor held to be, the most joyous noises coupled with the most hopeful words. He took the long walk from the console to his bedroom with his shoulders slumped and his head hanging, a small smile occasionally punishing his lips as he remembered just days before, standing on that platform, a pair of blue booties dangling from his fingers, in awe of the smallness of the life growing inside of her as she laughed.

"_If he's got your feet, he's going to need bigger shoes than that_."

"_Well, accounting for your part in his progress_…"

His feet had been perfect.

They'd fit neatly in the palm of one hand and he could recall without effort, the shape of his small toes, lying calmly under the caress of his thumb. Could remember the thought, instant in his mind – they were her toes, niblets of flesh he brought gently to his lips, allowing himself one small last kiss before laying him back in a nurse's arms because he had other things to attend to now. A woman who needed him in that moment more than he needed to mourn.

"_I'm more worried about the size of his noggin – have you _seen_ your head_."

"_Oi, speak for yourself, Clara_."

The Doctor leaned on the door frame, seeing her lying on her side, and he listened, waiting because he didn't know what today would bring. Every day was different – sometimes better; sometimes worse – and he had to be prepared because his hearts had had enough assaults on them to destroy anyone, but this one... This one struck him because it came with the remembrance of so much expectation, _so much promise_.

"Clara?"

The sheets pulled to her neck shifted, but she didn't turn to look at him, she simply exhaled and he understood it was a day in which she wasn't sure what she should feel. He hated those days the most. When she just lied there, one hand balled just under her chin, the other settled against what remained of her swollen abdomen, and refused to move.

Making his way to sit on the bed, he looked to the basinet pushed against the far wall, to the things that had been tossed to the ground in anger and the torn pages of a journal that lay scattered about against the pastel mint and tan rug. Thoughts she'd shared with him on a daily basis, read aloud at the end of a day or the start of a day, her feet propped up on a tall coil set between herself and the console as she took bites of mandarins and sips of ginger ale.

_ "You know I might give these to him one day," she told him with a nod._

_ He chuckled. "Know the hell he gave you?"_

_ With a laugh, she shook her head, "Know how much I loved him."_

_ "Even before he was born," he smiled._

_ "Yeah," she sighed, smoothing the fabric over her stomach._

He settled himself into the bed beside her and nestled into her back, hearing her take a long breath as he looked over her hair. It was a right mess, but it was still beautiful. The same color as the peppering of hair the boy had on his head and he knew if he reached up and touched it, he would be floored with the memory of the softness of the strands on their son.

"Hello, Clara," he whispered.

"Hey," she managed hoarsely, and he closed his eyes against the sound of her voice. It felt like it'd been forever since he'd heard it so calm. At first she'd cried. Every syllable that escaped came out on sobs she did nothing to retrain. But she'd been screaming for days, words of anger and frustration and blame.

Words of loss and sorrow.

He wanted to ask how she was feeling, but he knew in his hearts exactly what she was feeling. He felt that missing bit of himself – a hole that wouldn't readily be filled; possible could never be filled – and he simply wrapped an arm around her, brow wrinkling when she sniffled loudly and inched backwards into him. Her palms came up to wrap over his forearms and she dropped a kiss to his skin.

"I'm sorry," she told him quietly.

"Clara," he sighed, shaking his head and then bringing it up to carefully atop hers, giving her skin a gently nudge with his and smiling because her hair tickled his ear and he easily saw the infant, her hand delicately running over his head and bare chest as she'd silently cried. "Don't apologize."

He could feel her fighting her frown as she allowed, "I don't understand."

_ "Doctor, he's not moving; why isn't he moving."_

_ "Clara, just take a breath, he's probably sleeping."_

_ "No, no, he's… something's wrong."_

Fingers gripping into her shoulder, he told her, "Sometimes there isn't anything to understand." He sighed into her ear. "There's no reason; no one to point a finger at; no one to lay the fault at their feet – you did nothing wrong; I did nothing wrong."

"Then why?" She choked out. "Why him; why our baby? How can this be no one's fault? Is it because I'm human and you're… was it because of me?"

He shook his head slightly as her legs tucked towards her stomach. "No more than it was because of me, because I'm Gallifreyan."

"Why him?" She moaned.

The Doctor tugged at her, pulling until she reluctantly turned to face him, revealing the puffiness around her eyes and the redness in her face. And she crumpled as he watched her, exhaling roughly into his chin while he kissed her forehead, feeling his own tears begin to billow over his face, dropping down onto the sheets with loud thuds under the weight and he realized, he hadn't allowed himself to cry – not since he'd...

_ "Do you want to hold him?"_

_ He'd stared at the boy, cradled in Clara's arms._

_ "Doctor, please…"_

_ She couldn't look at him anymore, she couldn't hold him anymore, but she couldn't stand the thought of them taking him away._

_ "Your son…" she breathed, inhaling sharply at the words._

_ He reached forward, fingers carefully shifting around the bundled baby and he felt the reluctance as he pulled the body against him, saw her arms outstretched, as if he'd taken her heart. His son, he thought with a ragged sob as he looked down at the small face. So calm. A perfect miniature of them both, peacefully lying in his arms. He ran a hand over the small head and touched the skin of his arm, soft and thin, just like his long fingers. Fingers that laid limply against his and dropped away when he shifted his hand away._

_ "Just breathe," he willed – to himself and the child, but neither complied._

Placing his forehead against Clara's, he listened to her crying, the questions and uncertainty muttered from lips incapable of completing any single word and he felt his own tears, now freely rolling from his eyes. "We did everything right. Everything. And he was perfect. Doctor, he was perfect."

Her hands gripped at his waistcoat and he shifted closer to her, arms enveloping her the best they could on the bed and he pressed a kiss into her hair, nodding against her as he told her quietly, "He was, Clara. He was."


End file.
